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Colton
‘ Alllriiightyyy ladies and gentlemen! It’s the time of the night we’ve all been waiting for! The best cowboys in the world! It’s time to let the bulls go wiiild !’
I winced against the announcer’s voice blaring around the stadium. His voice had a deep twang, most likely from Texas, with an energy I’d never witnessed before. But he’d kept the crowd amped all night, who were now responding to his announcement with stomping boots and screams. My nerves hitched to a new level, even though I’d been through this a gazillion times. The New York Elite Bull Riding event was always a special one though. Where the city met the country, a chance for us country folk to show the city slickers how we lived. While they cheated death by crossing roads littered with yellow taxis, cowboys like me would rather lower ourselves onto the backs of pissed off bulls.
False smoke billowed across the sandy arena. Strobe lights ducked and dived. Banners with the Ebr logo decorated every available space amongst sponsors. Rock country music blared. A guy dressed in black wearing a headset waved the line of bull riders into the arena. There were ten riders: two Australians, one Kiwi, three Americans, two Brazilians, one Mexican and one Argentinian. My knees trembled as I walked into the centre of the arena. The crowd went wild. Sweat broke from my hand clutching the riding ropes slung over my shoulder. The protective vest I wore felt too tight.
Nerves are good. Feed the adrenaline. Use them—don’t abuse them.
I took my spot next to one of the Brazilians, Luiz Oliveira, a short and solid rider. He was currently sitting third out of the top ten. I was fourth. Brady Cooper, a unit of tall muscle and a square jaw took his spot on my left. I only smirked at the American’s competitive side eye. With the ten riders lined up, the crowd lulled into a rare hush as the first tunes of the American national anthem began playing. I removed my black Stetson, as did everyone else in the stadium, holding it over my heart. It always felt strange paying tribute to a country that wasn’t mine. The United States had given me everything I had today. Standing proud and singing the words to “The Star-Spangled Banner” was the least I could do.
The anthem ended, bringing with it a fresh round of whoops and cheers from the crowd when the lively announcer began naming the top ten riders. The spotlight flashed down on each rider, who stepped forward and gave their signature greeting to the crowd.
‘All the way from Australia …’ I still found it amusing how the Americans pronounced it as Orr-stralia . ‘… sitting in fourth place, Colton Hayes!’
I tried not to wince against the harsh spotlight, dots still dancing across my vision, when I stepped forward and gave a slight tip of my hat. A version of myself appeared on the big screen, all cocky and arrogant, waltzing up to the camera with ropes slung over my shoulder. The stats of my season dropped down the side of the screen before a reel of highlights. A group of young girls, most likely from NYU, shimmied and cheered in the front row. I eyed their bare stomachs exposed by tied shirts, plastic cowgirl hats and Daisy Duke shorts with appreciation.
The city girls were always the wild ones, desperate to be taken by a real man after tolerating city boys. They were sick of the white collars, soft hands and silky ties binding them during sex. Society told them that the walk they did from the hotel lobby to the awaiting Uber should be shame-filled. But I’d yet to see a girl look sheepish as I closed the door of my room behind her. Bruises were worn on their hips as badges of honour. They were evidence of being railed by a bull rider. As were the screams and moans through the hotel walls.
It wasn’t rare to earn a bite mark to my shoulder, either.
It was every hot-blooded male’s dream to have a carousel of horny women, but lately, the lifestyle was beginning to exhaust me. As thrilling as their promiscuity could be, I was beginning to feel like a pathetic old man when my body, broken by the sport I loved, was starting to struggle with the physicality of what they wanted—expected—amongst the sheets. A new city, a new girl. I’d tried dating a few times, but it never lasted more than a few months. Girls were always keen to throw themselves at a bull rider for a short amount of time, but they quickly grew tired of the weeks and nights away, the fear of wondering if the bloke they were dating would be carted from the arena in a body bag after losing the battle to a bull. It was always easier to use my career as a smokescreen than acknowledge the real reason behind my failed relationships.
Even after seven years, I always compared them to her . Their hair wasn’t soft and blonde, their skin not naturally tanned and divided by tan lines, their eyes weren’t blue enough or their smile bright enough. The girls willing to sleep with a bull rider weren’t gentle and sweet but confident and dangerous. It didn’t make sense. I’d been the one to leave. But it seemed my heart had been claimed a long time ago, whether I liked it or not.
Like a hex as punishment.
‘Tonight, our favourite Aussie rider will be taking on …’ I forced myself back to the present, my heart thumping loudly in my chest as the big screens faded to reveal my fate. ‘… Tabasco !’
I let out an anxious breath, tense shoulders sagging like a deflated balloon. Tabasco’s season highlights played on the screen. The brindle bull was good. But I was better. I’d ridden him once already and although I’d been hanging on by a thread, the eight second buzzer had rung out with me still on the bull’s back.
The crowd couldn’t see it, but there was a nervousness beneath the cowboys’ hats. The Bounty Hunter was a bull yet to have a rider on him for an entire eight seconds. He and I had danced a few years ago. Two seconds. Five broken ribs. A major concussion. A snapped wrist. Every night when I closed my eyes, the bull’s big black face and pointed horns charged at me. Thankfully tonight wouldn’t be the night I’d face him again, but rather my fellow Aussie, Dustin Bond. The kid had only been in the top ten for one season. The Bounty Hunter was going to chew him up and spit him out onto a hospital bed. By the slight paleness of his face, I didn’t have to tell him this.
The strobe lights began their dance across the arena again and I followed the three cowboys in front of me out of the arena to Big riding out to check fences with Beau and Dad, having Dad’s encouraging and calm voice on the railings as my younger self mounted a freshly broken colt for the first time. His booming laugh and clap on the back as he heaved me to my feet after being thrown. Telling me to get back on before the air had been able to get back into my lungs.
‘You can’t let him win, son. You’ve gotta get straight back on before he realises he can keep you off.’
The crowd suddenly roared, the sound of the buzzer echoing around the stadium blending with the cheers. I’d made it . I let go of the rope and threw myself from the bull, making a beeline for the railing and hauling myself over. Tabasco jogged along the race next to me, the rope slipping off his back to be trampled in the sand. I didn’t bother looking at the score, which glowed on the large screen. I knew it would be laughable. I’d had no style, resembling a rag doll. It’d been a total fluke that I’d managed to stay on at all.
Back behind the chutes, I tore off my chaps, embroidered with the Australian flag, and threw them into my gear bag with my vest.
‘Hey, Hayes, where you going?’ Dustin sidled up beside me through the alley.
‘Home.’